Twilight
by Pandora02
Summary: Alexander Mahone is fighting his demons, and he seems to have quite a lot of them. One is called Michael Scofield. Michael/Alex Slash


**Title**: **Twilight  
****Pairing**: Michael/Alex (plus tiny hints at Michael/Lincoln, might miss them if you squint)  
**Rating**: Teen  
**Warning**: Drug use, mild spoilers for S2  
**English Beta**: by my friend ‚foxriverinmate' - thank you!  
**Summary**: Alexander Mahone is fighting his demons, and he seems to have quite a lot of them. One is called Michael Scofield.

* * *

Twilight

You have no idea how it could come this far. If you wanted to you could come up with various ways to sanctify your actions, but you've mastered the art of delusion to perfection. And it's yourself you're deceiving most effectively. Which is even more sad because you know it. At least in your better moments.

Now he's gone.

Scofield has gone, more than an hour ago, and you're lying here between the rumpled sheets of some expensive hotelroom, and you refuse to leave because the sheets smell of him. You know he's extending his lead. He and his brother. No reason to get nervous. Not now… The kid has no idea how quickly you will catch up! You have ways and means available to you that he can only dream of.

The FBI is paying for this hotel. The bath with the jacuzzi, the golden faucets, the soft towels and the clean sheets; even for the damn idyllic view! Any expenses. Anything nessecary to capture the most dangrous men in the country. The irony in this makes you laugh so hard you're choking, and afterwards your throat burns.

Shales - Scofield. Scofield - Shales. At the beginning of the manhunt the names and respective faces overlapped, sounded similar if you didn't fully pay attention. The one, the worst defeat in your career; the other is to be your biggest triumph.

Call it a triumph! Alex, don't you realise you're on the downward spiral into Hell? You hunted him throughout the country, were more than once close enough to smell his sweat. Twice, no, after tonight three times already, you've caught him. You've had him.

And let him go.

To whom would you confess that? God has many names but he does not exist. Not for you. You should have killed him. Killed him at your first opportunity. It would have been so easy and official. No problem with the report. Just like with Abruzzi. Just like with Apolskis. _Target person was armed. Aimed at federal agent. _With a scenario like that the FBI directives instruct not to take any risks. _Target person had been warned, they ignored the warning and payed with their life_. File closed. It could have been so easy. It would have been an end.

Instead…

Instead you spent a third night with said target person. Albeit ‚_night'_ has never been the correct word until now. The warehouse in the early evening, the cheap motel at dawn. And now this five star luxury hotel with ice cold champagne on the table and three different porn channels. Anything you could wish for, but still he disappered before dawn. Once more you're laughing throatily. Well, at least there's progression. This is certainly an improvement. What do you think comes next? Maybe your cosy home with a garden? The tastefully furnished home that was once so happy. Your perfect house surrounded by hedges, with a neatly mown lawn in the back. Oh, what an exquisite love nest it would make!

Never.

Since Pam and Cameron have gone it has become a house of the dead. Or did that happen earlier and they left because of it? Every once in a while you invite your dealer into the house. That pretty boy with the huge brown eyes, but he, too, is not allowed to stay overnight. He'd love to. He likes you, the devil knows why, but you barely remember his name after he's left. There is no doubt that he knows yours, because he's screaming it frequently when he's lying beneath you.

Your home… there's no way you'd grant Scofield admission. He would see who you are. Find out what you have done, and, which is even worse, you could not bear to let him go again.

One more time you're burying your nose into the white bedspread and bask in the memories of the last few hours. His smell is musky and somehow… somehow like fear, but he's also smelling young and sweet. Like an apple you want to bite into. You want to gnaw down to the bone and afterwards, when you're sated, throw it into the nearest ditch. Ditch or grave? It makes no difference. Just a dead file between closed cardboard folders.

Instead…

Instead you're busy digging your own grave, yours and his, so that you can snugly nestle against your rotting apple skeleton in the end. What? You wanted to be close to him, didn't you?

Instead you're fucking him, until you are both near unconsciousness. And yes, oh God, yes, it feels so damn good to be inside of him. He never cries out your name. Not like… what's he called again? Billy? Ben? But his groans are full of lust when you're grabbing him and taking him again and again. He clearly enjoys his seemingly weaker position and surrenders completely to you. He enjoys it when your fingers and teeth leave marks. That was unexpexted. Good heavens, possibly Scofield would happily cheer you on if you brought a whip next time to paint his little white ass with glistening red lines!

Why are you so intrigued by this man? He has a pretty face, of course, but at your age good looks alone are not enough. You don't like him, that's a fact. He's a criminal, but he's altruistic, which isn't normal. And that's exactly why you want into his brain. Want to understand him, hunt him down, stuff his head and hang up the trophy above the fireplace. He doesn't fit into your view of the world.

Is it possible to smell intelligence? Is it the similarity of minds that attracts you, or are you just about to prove good old Darwin was right? Male showing off carried to the extremes. You don't fight for the nearest female, but rather for… well, for what? Intellect or instinct? That is the question. Who's going to answer it?

You know you cannot lie here forever. Soon, very soon, the hunt must start again or you will begin to attract attention. And you do love your job. You can't imagine leaving it all and become a jailbird - because of him.

Agent Alexander Mahone… archetype of the perfect FBI agent. You have, in a certain way, made a career as impressive as your prey Scofield. Differences are only superficial. Ha! Maybe you two should sit together and compare accolades. A picture-perfect career. The army, Homeland Security, and on top of it all, it's your fifteenth year with the FBI now. Everything you do is for your country. Everything…

Now you're lying facedown on this hotel bed, which contained your whole world during the past few hours. Slowly the borders are extending again, but they are not as wide and clear as before. The clock keeps ticking. When was it? When did your world begin to crumble at the edges?

Your breathing accelerates little by little, you feel your heart beating undsteadily, and it leaves an unpleasant nervousness. Your fingers are tingling, you are cold and hot at the same time, then a dull ache stabs right between your eyes, and your mouth feels dry. All familiar symptoms. You can afford to wait a little bit longer. Nobody is suspicious. Not yet. Just take your time… _tick… tick… tick_… After a few minutes you're digging your nails into the sheets to cover the tremors. Your lips are tighly pressed together and you're breathing through your nose. Scofield's smell has nearly dissipated. It won't be long, probably around noon, until you get sick and puke your soul out of your body. It cannot be anything else than the soul because you haven't eaten for more than twentyfour hours. But you will not let it come to this, will you? Why should you? You open your eyes, turn your head a little to the side and your gaze falls on the pill bottle that sits on the nightstand. Why didn't you hide it from him? Suddenly a loud alarm is going off, as the permanent faint buzzing in your ears breaks the surface of usually ignored sounds. You hate it because it drowns out your mind. Enough!

Midazolam.

Your magic word of the last years. Your own personal Mutabor. Most-loved and most-hated thing in your life. It makes you the functioning, fierce FBI agent the world is expecting. So practical. So easy. It costs you… nearly nothing. Just stretch out your arm, unsrew the cap and throw two of the little devils into your mouth. Done. You're falling on your back. You're pressing your fists into your eyes and you wait. Just breathe. In and out. In and out. Now then. The sound is ebbing away. The pain behind your forehead retreats discreetly. You don't bemoan your loss.

„Michael."

Maybe you should say it a bit louder. Loud enough for yourself to hear. And if you say it at the right time your words might be more than pathetic self-pity. The way you've done it you have no right to feel jaundiced because he goes back to _him_. Because he chooses _him_ over you.

„Michael, please… stay."

Aah, there they are, the right words. Not so difficult after all. Unfortunately nearly two hours too late. What are the chances that your tattooed genius has also telepathic powers? Right. As opposed to the chances that your tattooed genius has spent the rest of the night in his brother's arms. Good heavens, who's sick and pathetic now?

Lincoln loves him, no doubt, but does he understand him? They're like day and night. You think you understand Michael Scofield. Never before have you felt so much at home in another person's brain. Michael's brain is like a funfair, inviting you to frolic and cheer on it's brainy playground slides. You're smiling blissfully. You two are equal like two sides of a coin, and just like them you can't look each other in the eye. Say it loud, you're enemies! You know it. He knows it. That's why you always have to let him go. If you didn't, it would kill him, somehow or other. And what would become of you if he wasn't there any more? Then you'd have another ghost haunting you, another corpse in the cellar. But above that all, there would be no hunt…

The hunt must continue. You want it. You want Scofield. You want to have him. You want to show him he's all yours, he's nothing without you. You're the hunter. And you're nothing without him. You're an addict. Addicted to Scofield. You need him almost more than you need your little white pills.

Goddamn bullshit!

The day is dawning outside. You swing your legs out of the bed, take a refreshing shower and are ready for the new day's challenges. They say Scofield and his brother are heading south.

The hunt has begun.

Sounds like fun.

END


End file.
